If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest
No jealous tincture in my blood is.
I wonder, wonder, at a loss
To justify such wayward snarling—
It makes her very, very cross
My poor opinion of her darling;
The cause (should pride the cause withhold,
She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)
The cause is this—she calls, I'm told,
The little brute my "Living image!"